


A Shadow Over Brixton

by GloriaMundi



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, GAIMAN Neil - Works, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: C19, Community: kink_bingo, Historical, Lovecraftian, M/M, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was a Shoggoth," insists the Limping Doctor. "In Brixton High Street, of all places."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shadow Over Brixton

"It was a Shoggoth," insists the Limping Doctor. "In Brixton High Street, of all places."

He is holding himself very still. His shirt is stained with red blood and viridian ichor: the Doctor gave at least as good as he got.

"Is it yet living?"

The Doctor shakes his head.

"Then there is no more to be done." Sherry Vernet, tall dark handsome leading man of the Strand Players, leans over his new acquaintance and pours them each another tumbler of whisky.

"I beg to differ," says the Doctor. "I'm afraid I am unable to treat my injuries alone: the venom is making me uncomfortably light-headed, and some of the wounds are ... difficult to reach. Have you any medical experience, Mr Vernet?"

"I'm an actor," says Vernet. "I can make a decent show of medical procedures, but --"

"I understood from Miss Adler that you were rather more than a mere actor," says the Doctor bitingly. "I understood that you, and Irene, and myself have a certain interest in common. And if you are a Resto--"

"Ssshhh!" Vernet flicks glances at the window, the door, the empty fireplace.

" _If_ her insinuations are true," continues the Doctor, frowning, "I've no doubt you have plenty of experience with field medicine. It's not difficult, just messy. You need only follow my instructions and keep a steady hand."

"And if I cannot?"

The Doctor shrugs, and a grimace of pain passes across his handsome face. "I'll probably die of it, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner."

"Very well," says Vernet, springing to his feet. "I shall play the doctor." He seems suddenly more competent, less effete. The Doctor looks up at him, curious, and is relieved to detect determination in the set of the fellow's brow. He cannot deny the frisson between them, the sense of immanent intimacy, the thrill of the notion that Vernet's elegant, long-fingered hands will be uncovering his body, touching his bare skin, cleaning away the exudations and excretions of the fight.

The corner of Vernet's mouth twitches. Perhaps the Doctor is not being as subtle as he should like about his ... proclivities. But between them they seem to be breaking so many laws and prohibitions already that surely one more won't matter. And Vernet's an actor. The Limping Doctor has known quite a few actors.

Vernet's hands are strong and steady, holding him firmly but without pain when he instinctively flinches from the burn of the Tiger-balm on his forearm, where the creature's claws had snagged the skin. Tiger-balm is an effective way to neutralise shoggoth-ichor, but knowing that the pain is worthwhile does not actually make it hurt any less.

His ruined shirt is cut away and flung into a dark corner. "I shall address the gashes on your shoulder first," decides Vernet, his long fingers hovering above the bleeding wounds. He toes a carpet-bag out from beneath the couch: from it he produces clean bandages, and salve, and silk, and a curved needle that he cauterises in the candle-flame.

"There is an older scar here," he says, fingers tracing the white cobweb of scarring that is the Doctor's souvenir of an ancient temple and a black rite. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"How ...? Ouch," the Doctor interrupts himself feelingly. There is a popping sound as the needle pierces skin.

"I have made it my business to recognise the patterns typical to various sects," says Vernet absently, leaning over him to place another careful stitch. "This mandala is used by the Afghani hill tribes: I have not seen it elsewhere. .... There. It should heal cleanly." There is the comforting aromatic burn of balm. "More whisky?"

"Please. There are ... other wounds," says the Doctor, suddenly intent on the weave of the threadbare carpet.

"Where ... yes, I see." Vernet's sharp gaze traces the lines of bloody sucker-marks across the Doctor's ribs and abdomen, in the thatch of blond hair that trails down beneath the Doctor's belt. The flesh around some of the perfectly circular marks is puffy, greyish in the candle-light. "These must be thoroughly cleaned, if you are to avoid necrosis."

"It is ... not something I can attend to, myself," manages the Doctor. His knuckles are white, where he grips the glass, and blood is beading at the edges of the freshly-stitched lacerations that mar the line of his collar-bone. His frame is taut with the urge to curl around himself.

"No man could," Vernet assures him, folding down to kneel before the Doctor. "I fear .... forgive me, but I shall have to suck the poison out." He raises his eyes to meet the Doctor's, and his eyebrow arches slightly, as though inviting his patient to suggest further suction.

The Doctor's mouth twitches, but "Very well," is all he says.

Vernet's mouth is gentle on the Doctor's skin. Gentle, but thorough. He sucks and spits, sucks and spits. His hand is on the Doctor's hip, holding him still. His fingers flex in time with the rhythm of his lips. The Doctor shifts slightly in Vernet;'s hold, his own hand drifting toward his groin.

"Are there ... should I remove your trousers?" murmurs Vernet eventually, when his mouth has concluded its progress across the Doctor's belly.

"I ..." The Doctor takes a steadying breath. "That will not be medically necessary." He pauses. "That is to say; the creature only wounded me above the waist."

"I am glad of it," says Vernet. His eyes are very dark. "Though perhaps ... perhaps I should examine you. To be certain."

"In Afghanistan," says the Doctor, apparently at random, "the local healers prescribed a regime of massage, with particular emphasis on skin-to-skin contact: a technique of which I cannot speak too highly, since it most probably saved my life."

"You _are_ a medical man," says Vernet, his hands resting on the warm skin just above the Doctor's belt-buckle. "It would be foolish of me to dismiss your acumen. And such a method ... it may well counter any lingering effects of the beast's foul touch. Remind you that you are human, and can find pleasure in human touch."

"Indeed," says the Doctor, setting down his glass. His breath is ragged, but his colour is rather healthier than before. "It would be ... pleasant, to have the venom chased out by more wholesome effusions."

"And perhaps," murmurs Vernet, his hands busying themselves again, "your wounds might, later on, benefit from being kissed better. If you are the kind of man who would like such a thing."

"I should like it extremely," says John Watson.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to **p0wdermonkey** for beta!


End file.
